


Cradle and All

by Agapostemon



Series: The Sound of Shattered Glass [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Trans Shiro (Voltron), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agapostemon/pseuds/Agapostemon
Summary: “You may be pleased to know, though, that you will not be alone,” Ulaz continues, “My collaborator arranged for you to return to a communal cell rather than your current solitary accommodations. It is my understanding that you are a member of a social species, and I imagine you would benefit from some comfort right now.”“Thank you,” Shiro responds in a monotone. He decides not to mention that his new cell-mates are as likely to kill him as they are to comfort him. After all, he is the Champion. How many of their friends has he killed and maimed, now? His stomach clenches as he realizes he’s lost count. Perhaps he deserves to be killed. Perhaps he deserves whatever happened last night.





	Cradle and All

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: Describes the aftermath of rape/sexual violence, vomit, dissociation, sad ending
> 
> Morata (the alien who shows up in the later half of this) is basically an anthropomorphic version of [this lovely amphipod](http://calphotos.berkeley.edu/imgs/512x768/0000_0000/0505/0498.jpeg) (don't click that if you don't like seeing crustaceans/bugs). This is hopefully not the last you will be seeing of my amphipod aliens!

Shiro flutters awake groggily as his body is lowered onto something soft. A bed? He’s not sure what’s happening, but something feels wrong. Something tells him to run. So as soon as his body hits the sheets, he squirms away and tries to scramble to his feet. The movement shoots pain through his groin, though, and he doubles over the second his feet hit the ground. He’s becomes vaguely aware of his torn clothes. The sour taste in his mouth. The bruised sensation deep within his abdomen.

He swallows down bile and panic.

“Be still,” says a calm voice above him, “I am here to help.”

Shiro flinches away as a huge, velvety-soft hand touches his shoulder.

“What is your name, Champion?” the voice asks, “I assume you prefer not to be called Champion.”

Shiro blinks blearily. His name? No one has asked for his name since he become the Champion. Since he was moved to a single-occupant cell with no contact outside of the arena. He wonders if he should answer or if it’s a trap. He sinks to the floor as he ponders his response.

“Mine is Ulaz,” the voice offers up gently, “What are you called?”

“I’m… Shiro. My name’s Shiro,” he responds hazily, hoping he made the right decision.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Shiro,” says Ulaz, extending a hand to help Shiro up, “Though considering your current state, I doubt you will remember much of this encounter.”

Shiro fades out before Ulaz can help him back onto the bed, but apparently the galra succeeded, because the next thing he remembers is waking up to a stabbing pain in his pelvis as Ulaz helps him into what seems to be a pair of way-too-large alien pajama pants.

“This will afford you a bit of privacy while I find a less decimated jumpsuit for you,” Ulaz is explaining. Then, upon realizing Shiro is awake and listening, he adds, “Please excuse the intrusive question, but are you capable of carrying children? There have been… rumors of our species being reproductively compatible, and I would like to spare you that experience if at all possible.”

A vague wave of dysphoria washes over Shiro, even though he’s not sure the galra would even think to associate his genitals with his gender. Ultimately, he’s too groggy to care and opts for a straightforward answer, “No, uh… I got those parts taken out.”

Ulaz nods, “Good. That’s one problem we needn’t worry about, then.”

Shiro nods back. His head feels heavy. He’s not sure he’s ever felt so exhausted in his life. Not during the finals week when he didn’t sleep for 76 hours straight. Not on the flight to Kerberos. Not even after the increasingly frequent gladiator fights the galra have been putting him through. He’s just… tired. Heavy. It’s not long before sleep claims him again.

He remembers the rest of the night in bits and pieces. A cool glass of water held to his lips. Some kind of ointment stinging in places he’d rather not think about. A soft blanket tucked around him.

Many hours later, Shiro wakes up to Ulaz’s apologetic voice, “Unfortunately, I cannot keep you here in my quarters indefinitely. After your… performance,” Shiro cringes at the word and what it implies, “I requested some time alone with you. But if I keep you here much longer, it’s sure to draw suspicion. I hope you understand.”

Shiro nods slowly. Mostly he’s still stuck on the word _performance_.

“You may be pleased to know, though, that you will not be alone,” Ulaz continues, “My collaborator arranged for you to return to a communal cell rather than your current solitary accommodations. It is my understanding that you are a member of a social species, and I imagine you would benefit from some comfort right now.”

“Thank you,” he responds in a monotone. He decides not to mention that his new cell-mates are as likely to kill him as they are to comfort him. After all, he is the Champion. How many of their friends has he killed and maimed, now? His stomach clenches as he realizes he’s lost count. Perhaps he deserves to be killed. Perhaps he deserves whatever happened last night.

 _Performance_.

His head reels and suddenly he’s leaning over the edge of the bed, coughing up bile and water from his mostly-empty stomach. He can feel Ulaz’s claws resting gingerly on his back, as if the galra wants to comfort him but isn’t sure how.

Once he regains his composure a bit, he feels Ulaz press another glass of water to his lips, “Drink. You don’t want to return to your cell dehydrated.”

Shiro takes the glass in his hands and sips at it hesitantly.

“I have some food, as well, if you think you can stomach it,” the galra offers.

“Might as well try,” Shiro mutters in response, so Ulaz retreats around a corner and returns with a bowl of something warm and porridge-like. Shiro looks down at it suspiciously, then reluctantly takes a bite. It almost reminds him of zensai, though the chewy bits have an almost uncanny fruity flavor that mochi lacks. It’s a lot better than the seemingly-endless supply of cardboard-like meal replacement bars they survive on in prison. Before he knows it, he’s scarfing down the oddly-familiar alien porridge. The worst he can do is puke it back up.

Once Shiro has finished his breakfast, Ulaz presents him with a fresh set of prison garb and leaves him alone to change. He’s wobbly and sore, and standing up makes his head spin, but he manages to dress himself without assistance.

He makes a conscious effort not to look down at his naked body as he changes, but every ache and pain seems to have a story to tell, and none of them have a happy ending. He can practically feel clawed hands on his body as he drags the jumpsuit over his hips. The mere thought of it exhausts him.

By the time Ulaz returns, Shiro has already fallen back asleep, curled into a tight ball atop the bed.

The trek down to his new prison cell is mostly a blur. The next thing he knows, he’s waking up in the corner of a cell. The cold metal beneath him isn’t a shock, nor is the fact that the cell’s other inhabitants have all gravitated to the opposite side of the room. The blanket draped over his torso, though, is a bit of a surprise.

When he sits up to blearily survey his surroundings, he nearly bumps into mottled brown-and-white alien with a plated exoskeleton and an impressive number of appendages. Which is also a surprise, considering everyone else in the cell is, understandably, as far away from him as possible.

Upon further inspection, Shiro realizes he recognizes this alien. By name, even. Morata. Her brother, Jassa, was his first direct kill in the arena. For a moment, an icy fear washes over his body as he braces himself for a revenge that never comes.

Instead, she reaches out a tentative claw and tugs his discarded blanket around his shoulders. It’s an affectionate gesture. Protective, even.

“Why are you here?” Shiro asks, shrinking away suspiciously.

“Same reason you are, dear,” she responds with a clattering chuckle, “We don’t have much choice, now, do we?”

Shiro frowns, “I mean over here. With me.”

Morata’s limbs ripple in what seems to be a shrug, “Someone so young shouldn’t be so alone. The older human, the one they took away… was he your parent?”

“I’m not—” Shiro begins to protest. But then her words hit him and he curls in on himself because suddenly he feels very, _very_ young and very, _very_ hurt. And suddenly he wants nothing more than for Doc Holt to come back and hold him and tell him everything’s gonna be alright.

Which doesn’t happen, of course. But a moment later, Morata reaches out to run a gentle claw across Shiro’s scalp, and that’s all it takes to draw out the tears he’s been holding in for way too long.

Morata doesn’t say anything more, just clicks gently and undulates her smaller limbs over Shiro’s back as he cries himself back to sleep.

When he wakes up for dinner, his new friend is nowhere to be found. They took her, his cellmates inform him. No one’s sure where, but they’re sure of one thing: The Champion is to blame.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly tried to give this a happy ending, I swear I did. Or at least a bittersweet ending. But it just... ended up sad. Sorry not sorry? But this subplot continues in [This Awful Energy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9933557) and [Let's Unwrite These Pages](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10794402), which have somewhat less painful endings.
> 
> Also: Please remember that I write purely for fun and catharsis. My fics are unbeta’d and minimally proofread. They’re not perfect, and that’s okay. If you notice something I could fix or improve, please keep those thoughts to yourself. If I genuinely want critique, I’ll ask a close friend in private. **Surprise critiques are very stressful and discouraging.** Thanks for understanding!


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